POEM OF THE DAY

The Golden Boat

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clouds rumbling in the sky; teeming rain.

I sit on the river bank, sad and alone.

The sheaves lie gathered, harvest has ended,

The river is swollen and fierce in its flow.

As we cut the paddy it started to rain.

One small paddy-field, no one but me -

Flood-waters twisting and swirling everywhere.

Trees on the far bank; smear shadows like ink

On a village painted on deep morning grey.

On this side a paddy-field, no one but me.

Who is this, steering close to the shore

Singing? I feel that she is someone I know.

The sails are filled wide, she gazes ahead,

Waves break helplessly against the boat each side.

I watch and feel I have seen her face before.

Oh to what foreign land do you sail?

Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while.

Go where you want to, give where you care to,

But come to the bank a moment, show your smile -

Take away my golden paddy when you sail.

Take it, take as much as you can load.

Is there more? No, none, I have put it aboard.

My intense labour here by the river -

I have parted with it all, layer upon layer;

Now take me as well, be kind, take me aboard.

No room, no room, the boat is too small.

Loaded with my gold paddy, the boat is full.

Across the rain-sky clouds heave to and fro,

On the bare river-bank, I remain alone -

What had has gone: the golden boat took all.

~~~~~Rabindranath Tagore

Longing for fulfillment and connection in a rapidly changing world is the theme of the poem. The imagery of the boat, the river, and the paddy fields reflects a sense of transience and loss. The speaker yearns for the boat to take them away from the harsh realities of the harvest and into a brighter future, but they are denied. The poem concludes with the speaker alone on the riverbank, watching the boat sail away, taking with it all hopes, dreams and aspirations.

This poem differs from Tagore's other works by its somber tone and sense of loss. It reflects the social and economic changes occurring in India during Tagore's time, as traditional ways of life were being replaced by Western influences. The poem's portrayal of the speaker's loneliness and yearning for fulfillment resonates with the broader experience of Indian society during this period of transition.

Courtesy: Shri Vijay Mishra, Facebook 

POEM OF THE DAY

THE ALPINE SHEEP

by Maria White Lowell

When on my ear your loss was knelled,

    And tender sympathy upburst, 

A little spring from memory welled,

    Which once had quenched my bitter thirst.

And I was fain to bear to you

    A portion of its mild relief, 

That it might be as healing dew,

    To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child’s untroubled breath

    Up to the Father took its way, 

And on our home the shade of Death

    Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep

    Her little spirit’s swift remove, 

The story of the Alpine sheep

    Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley’s sheltering care, 

    Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime,

And when the sod grows brown and bare, 

    The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

    That hang along the mountain’s side,

Where grass and flowers together lean, 

    And down through mist the sunbeams slide.

But naught can tempt the timid things 

    The steep and rugged paths to try,

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 

    And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms their lambs he takes,

    Along the dizzy verge to go; 

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,

    They follow on, o’er rock and snow.

And in those pastures, lifted fair, 

    More dewy-soft than lowland mead,

The shepherd drops his tender care, 

    And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed, 

    Blew on me as the south-wind free

O’er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 

    From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision, through the night, 

    Would all my happy senses sway,

Of the good Shepherd on the height, 

    Or climbing up the starry way,

Holding our little lamb asleep,— 

    While, like the murmur of the sea,

Sounded that voice along the deep,

    Saying, “Arise and follow me!”

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 10, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets

POEM OF THE DAY

Hymn of Nature

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

O! Blest art thou whose steps may rove

Through the green paths of vale and grove

Or, leaving all their charms below,

Climb the wild mountain’s airy brow!

And gaze afar o’er cultur’d plains,

And cities with their stately fanes,

And forests, that beneath thee lie,

And ocean mingling with the sky.

For man can show thee nought so fair,

As Nature’s varied marvels there;

And if thy pure and artless breast

Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!

For thee the stream in beauty flows,

For thee the gale of summer blows;

And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,

Voices of joy still breathe for thee.

But happier far, if then thy soul

Can soar to Him who made the whole,

If to thine eye the simplest flower

Portray His bounty and His power:

If, in whate’er is bright or grand,

Thy mind can trace His viewless hand,

If Nature’s music bid thee raise

Thy song of gratitude and praise;

If heaven and earth with beauty fraught,

Lead to His throne thy raptured thought;

If there thou lovest His love to read;

Then, wand’rer, thou art blest indeed!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 9, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

POEM OF THE DAY

*Fog*

*Emma Lazarus*

Light silken curtain, colorless and soft,

Dreamlike before me floating! what abides

                 Behind thy pearly veil’s

                 Opaque, mysterious woof?

Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch daylong

Thick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads,

                Nigh me I still can mark

                Cool fields of beaded grass.

No more; for on the rim of the globed world

I seem to stand and stare at nothingness.

                But songs of unseen birds

                And tranquil roll of waves

Bring sweet assurance of continuous life

Beyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams,

                Of tissue subtler still

                Than the wreathed fog, arise,

And cheat my brain with airy vanishings

And mystic glories of the world beyond.

                A whole enchanted town

                Thy baffling folds conceal—

An orient town, with slender-steepled mosques,

Turret from turret springing, dome from dome,

                Fretted with burning stones,

                And trellised with red gold.

Through spacious streets, where running waters  flow,

Sun-screened by fruit-trees and the  broad-leaved palm,

                Past the gay-decked bazaars,

                Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.

Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues,

While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares.

                The sultry air is spiced

                With fragrance of rich gums,

And through the lattice high in yon dead wall,

See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face,

                Flushed like a musky peach,

                Peers down upon the mart!

From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised head

She hath cast back the milk-white silken veil:

                ’Midst the blank blackness there

                She blossoms like a rose.

Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes,

And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam?

                Behold her smile on me

                With honeyed, scarlet lips!

Divine Scheherazade! I am thine.

I come! I come!—Hark! from some far-off mosque

                The shrill muezzin calls

                The hour of silent prayer,

And from the lattice he hath scared by love.

The lattice vanisheth itself—the street,

               The mart, the Orient town;

                Only through still, soft air

That cry is yet prolonged. I wake to hear

The distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyes

                Stands the white wall of mist,

                Blending with vaporous skies.

Elusive gossamer, impervious

Even to the mighty sun-god’s keen red shafts!

                With what a jealous art

                Thy secret thou dost guard!

Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds,

Within an opal hollow, there abides

                The lady of the mist,

                The Undine of the air—

A slender, winged, ethereal, lily form,

Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair,

                In waving raiment swathed

                Of changing, irised hues.

Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazed

The freshened grass, a richer emerald glows:

                Into each flower-cup

                Her cool dews she distills.

She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks,

She knows the green soft hollows of their sides,

                And unafraid she floats

                O’er the vast-circled seas.

She loves to bask within the moon’s wan beams,

Lying, night-long, upon the moist, dark earth,

                And leave her seeded pearls

                With morning on the grass.

Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courts

Of her fantastic palace I might pass,

                And reach the inmost shrine

                Of her chaste solitude,

And feel her cool and dewy fingers press

My mortal-fevered brow, while in my heart

                She poured with tender love

                Her healing Lethe-balm!

See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves!

Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streams

                Upon a newborn world and laughing summer seas.

                And laughing summer seas.

Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glance

Through crystal air. On the horizon’s marge,

                Like a huge purple wraith,

         The dusky fog retreats.

*This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 1, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets*.

POEM OF THE DAY

A JELLY-FISH

Marianne Moore 

1887 – 1972

Visible, invisible,
A fluctuating charm,
An amber-colored amethyst
Inhabits it; your arm
Approaches, and
It opens and
It closes;
You have meant
To catch it,
And it shrivels;
You abandon
Your intent—
It opens, and it
Closes and you
Reach for it—
The blue
Surrounding it
Grows cloudy, and
It floats away
From you.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 30, 2015, by the Academy of American Poets.

POEM OF THE DAY

THE STORY AS I UNDERSTAND IT  LEONORA SPEYER

I think that Eve first told the callow Tree of apples, And taught the adolescent Serpent how to hiss Its first wise word. I think the Angel with the Flaming Sword Followed her with hot holy eyes, Remembering the red curve of her kiss As she passed out of Paradise. See, how the apple-boughs are twisted in their pain, Weighed down with many a red-cheeked little Cain, And how the serpent writhes away From man to this far day. An angel is a lovely lonely thing Of boundless wing. They are the banished ones that grieve; Not Eve! Not Eve, her body quick with coming pride, Nor Adam walking there at her white side— A little heavily perhaps, Because of things scarce known, As yet not named: New tenderness for Eve, but not for Eve alone, Fears not yet fears— And out beyond, the world untamed Of which to make Their surer paradise of tears! But in the Garden is a hallowed emptiness Of laws, forgotten now, Concerning fruit and flowers, That none shall ever bless Or break; And in the Garden is the one plucked Bough That blossoms whimpering Through a divine monotony Of Spring on spring.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 2, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.

POEM OF THE DAY

*Song of a Second April*

*Edna St. Vincent Millay*

1892 – 1950

April this year, not otherwise

   Than April of a year ago,

Is full of whispers, full of sighs,

   Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;

   Hepaticas that pleased you so

Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,

   And shingles lie about the doors;

In orchards near and far away

   The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;

   The men are merry at their chores,

And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep,

   Noisy and swift the small brooks run

Among the mullein stalks the sheep

   Go up the hillside in the sun,

   Pensively,—only you are gone,

You that alone I cared to keep.

*This poem was originally published in Second April (1921). This poem is in the public domain.*

POEM OF THE DAY

Poetry Magazine

January/February 2025

*Piano*

*By D. H. Lawrence*

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

                                                                  THE ONLY NEWS I KNOW 

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

POET OF THE DAY

                     William WORDSWORTH 

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus 

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

POEM OF THE DAY

*The Weary Blues*

*Langston Hughes*

1901 – 1967

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,

Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

     I heard a Negro play.

Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

     He did a lazy sway . . .

     He did a lazy sway . . .

To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.

With his ebony hands on each ivory key

He made that poor piano moan with melody.

     O Blues!

Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool

He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.

     Sweet Blues!

Coming from a black man’s soul.

     O Blues!

In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone

I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—

     "Ain’t got nobody in all this world,

       Ain’t got nobody but ma self.

       I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’

       And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.

He played a few chords then he sang some more—

     "I got the Weary Blues

       And I can’t be satisfied.

       Got the Weary Blues

       And can’t be satisfied—

       I ain’t happy no mo’

       And I wish that I had died."

And far into the night he crooned that tune.

The stars went out and so did the moon.

The singer stopped playing and went to bed

While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.

He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

*From The Weary Blues (Alfred A. Knopf, 1926) by Langston Hughes. This poem is in the public domain.*

POEM OF THE DAY

Return to Sea

Langston Hughes

1901 – 1967

Today I go back to the sea

And the wind-beaten rise of the foam.

Today I go back to the sea—

And it’s just as though I were home. 

It’s just as though I were home again

On this ship of iron and steam,

And it’s just as though I have found again

The broken edge of a dream.

*From Black Opals 1, No. 1 (Spring 1927). This poem is in the public domain*

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY

OUT OF THE MORNING.

by Emily Dickinson 

WILL there really be a morning? 
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?
Has it feathers like a bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!